by Viv Royce
When she didn’t say anything, he asked, “You are going to tell him, ‘Not in a million years,’ right?” Please tell me you are.
“I’m not sure.”
“Tamela…”
“I miss him so much. I want him back.”
The raw pain in her voice cut into Mark’s gut. He should start the car, drive over to that bastard’s apartment, and remodel his arrogant face. But that was probably exactly what James was waiting for. Tamela still cared for him, and the more her family turned against him, the more she would pull back from them and be completely at his mercy. That’s how predators worked: single out the victim, separate it from the herd, and then go in for the kill.
But he wasn’t going to let that happen. James wasn’t going to have Tamela. Not that easily. He counted to five and said, “You think about it, Tammy. I know you miss him and you still…love him.” It seemed idiotic to apply the word “love” to someone who had treated Tamela like James had, but Mark knew Tamela believed it had been love. He had to go along with her to avoid an argument and a breach.
“But he is not that reliable. Now he wants you back. In a few weeks’ time, he might walk away again. Then you’ll be hurt even more. Don’t put yourself through it. Be strong now and avoid the heartbreak down the road.”
“I don’t know, Mark. Maybe he’s serious. Maybe he changed.”
Mark closed his eyes. Not this, please. Not the “maybe he changed” card. Guys like James never changed. They only pretended to. Or maybe they didn’t even have to pretend. Their victims drew the conclusion of their own accord. Because they wanted it so badly.
“You think it over,” he said, his mind working to find some kind of solution. Could he hire a PI and put him on James to dig up dirt about him? Prove to Tamela he was really not worth her time?
But she would probably not appreciate his interference and might even feel more strongly about giving James that second chance.
“I shouldn’t have told you,” Tamela said. “I wanted…somebody’s advice. But you never liked James.”
No, and I was right, Mark wanted to say, but he didn’t. He had to play this smart, not drive her straight into James’s arms. “We gave James a fair chance. We took him into the company.”
“I know. And he let you down.”
“It’s not about us. It’s about you. He let you down. He…” Mark bit back the words, “cheated on you with your best friend.” There really was no need to bring that up. Tamela knew it.
She knew it, and yet she was considering giving the guy a second chance. Dad was right. As soon as emotion got into anything, it became one big mess. People started to act like idiots, hurting their own interests and those of others around them. If Mom heard that Tamela was getting together with James again, she’d not sleep a wink anymore.
“Be careful, Tammy. I don’t want him to break your heart all over again.”
“His affair was a mistake. He told me so. She seduced him. He knew it had been wrong the moment it happened. He even cried about it.”
“That’s what they always say.”
“I shouldn’t have told you.” Her voice was brittle with unshed tears. “Good-bye.” She disconnected.
Mark banged his hand on the wheel. He had tried, honestly. He had tried to talk to her, see it her way, not create a fight. But to have to listen to the guy’s cheap excuses…him being seduced, being sorry…crying. James had never shed a single tear about Tamela. About her money, maybe. Yes, it was decidedly possible that he’d realized that he had been a fool to let her go when she had access to so much easy money. That was what he was sorry for: that he couldn’t put his hand in the till again.
Wait until Dad hears about this. He’s going to burst a vessel. His high blood pressure was kept down with a tight regimen of healthy eating and exercise. He wasn’t allowed to work himself up about things, but it was impossible not to get worked up over this.
And Mom… They’ll go through the wringer again. And there’s nothing I can do.
Mark started the engine and drove away. A restless feeling inside pushed him to drive, just drive, into nothing, nowhere, and scream into the wind. Why, why, why?
But he turned toward Wood Creek. Ironically, to go to a Valentine’s event.
Chapter Five
“Put all the wood there,” Cleo said to Grant Donovan, who carried two sacks of it into the community center’s large space. Several tables were set up along the far end, covered with sheets so the kids could work on them without damaging the surfaces. Opposite them was a drinks and snacks buffet. Red and blue bowls full of mini tomatoes and cucumbers, cheese strings, blueberry muffins, marshmallows, and chocolate chip cookies. Cleo couldn’t help but suppress a grin at Mrs. Barton’s expression when the kids would make a beeline for the sweet stuff and ignore her healthy offerings. Hopefully, the idea that she had enabled a choice would make her feel better.
Behind the buffet, Mrs. Barton was pouring homemade lemonade into plastic cups. She held one up to Grant. “Want a drink before you leave again?”
“No, thanks.” Grant made a dismissive gesture. “I just had dinner.”
“I want one.” The little girl following Grant ran to the table and reached out her hand. Her black hair was braided and held in place with cute bear clips.
Mrs. Barton shook her head. “You’ll get lemonade later, Casey, with all the participating children.”
Casey didn’t seem to understand why, but after an eager look at all the inviting goodies in the bowls, especially the marshmallows, she nodded and ran back to her father, who had put the sacks with wood down and was opening one to show the contents to Cleo.
“I made big and small ones.” Grant took a piece of wood into his hand. The wood had been smoothed so no slivers stuck out. “All they have to do is saw the heart shape and paint and decorate them.”
“That’s great. Thanks so much for chipping in.”
“No problem.” Grant looked around him. “Seems you have everything set up.” He leaned down to Casey and kissed her on the forehead. “Daddy is going to see how Emma is doing at the shop. When she’s finished with her orders for tomorrow, we’ll come back here to see how you’re getting along.”
“Bye bye.” Casey stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “Give Emma a hug for me.”
“Will do.” Grant grinned. Cleo bet that even without his daughter’s order, he would have given Emma a hug. There had seemed to be something going on with those two at the Christmas fair, although Cleo hadn’t seen them touch each other or kiss. But it had been obvious they liked to spend time together. She hoped for a little romance so Grant Donovan would stay around Wood Creek and Casey would keep coming to her bookshop. She liked the perky girl. Casey could lie on her stomach in the shop for hours leafing through books, looking at the illustrations, and imagining her own stories to go with them. Rook was the safe haven Cleo herself had wanted to have as a child—where she could have lived her imagination and nobody would have told her it was weird.
Mark Stephens would probably ask her how that sold any books, but he could just…
Upon the thought, he walked into the room, stopping a moment to put something in his pocket, maybe his car keys or his phone. She noted his confident stance, the quiet determination he exuded. Last time she had met him, he had been wearing a crisp gray business suit. This time it was dark blue. She had seen enough men in bad-fitting suits, the sleeves too short or the jacket too tight, to know that his were tailor made. Why on earth is he here? Probably not to make bookends.
Her heart beat fast, and she rubbed her palms together. Nothing but nerves because he probably came to tell her he had already found much better shops to become a part of the Stephens empire and he didn’t want to include Rook. If he had, he might as well tell her now so she knew where they were at. Her boss would be so disappointed, and personally she’d feel as if she had failed. Fai
led in her mission to show Mark Stephens that she could run a bookshop and keep it successful, even if she didn’t do everything his way.
Their eyes met, and something was different than before. A certain tiredness, a reluctance to come in. Like he would rather stay on the sideline and watch them without taking part at all.
She waved at him. He smiled and came over with quick steps, as if pushing himself to break through the barrier that kept him back. He reached out his hand to her. “Miss Davis.”
“Mr. Stephens, hello.” She drank in the warmth of his grasp. Her heart fluttered even more. Pure pressure of the moment, of course, anticipation of any bad news. A short, to-the-point announcement and then he’ll be off again. Out of my hair, out of my life. Why did that feel like a missed opportunity?
“So this is where it’s at tonight,” he said, looking around again.
“Yes, we’ll be making bookends.” She gestured to the sacks with wood. Moments ago, she had been happy Grant had smoothed the wood and already done some work for them, but now the simple pieces struck her as rather rustic and miserable, and Mark would think it was a stupid undertaking. Like her book castle and her table for stressed housewives and everything else she had thought up. Fantasy is not reality, Cleo, Dad would say.
He nodded. His hand came up to rub his left shoulder as if it were sore. Or stiff?
“Have you been on the road all day?” she asked. “Maybe you want a cup of coffee?”
His expression changed, his blue eyes suddenly coming to life and his mouth tilting up in a slow smile. “You know my weakness already.”
Weakness? Does he have any? A treacherous heat sneaked into her cheeks. “This way.” She gestured too widely and marched him to the stand where Mrs. Barton was still pouring lemonade. “Mr. Stephens would like some coffee.”
“Please call me Mark,” he said.
“Only if you call me Cleo.” She held his gaze a moment. A strange, daring feeling invaded her system. Why not try and be friends with him? It can only help my case.
If he started to like her, he might be willing to save the shop. That was all she wanted.
“Cleo it is.” Mark’s eyes held a twinkle as if this move to a first name basis created a whole new dimension between them. “How was your day, Cleo?”
She had to suck in a bit more air to reply casually. “Oh, it went rather well. A woman came in from another town wanting to buy a dozen kids’ books for a raffle.”
“That’s good to hear.” He leaned over. “Don’t tell me you gave her a discount because it was for a good cause.”
“Of course not.” She laughed nervously. “I’m not allowed to give discounts.” She conveniently didn’t add that she had given the woman some bookmarks and a poster to dress up the raffle a bit. She guessed that, as the publisher had sent the materials for promotional purposes, the raffle could serve as well as the store. And the customer had been very happy with the free addition to her purchases.
“How was your day? Find any more shops for the empire?” She tried to sound casual, but it didn’t really work out. Uneasiness wriggled in her stomach. His friendly approach might only be paving the way for the bad news. His aftershave tickled her nose with a hint of pine, and when he reached out to accept the coffee cup from Mrs. Barton, his arm brushed hers. Something witty or casual to say right now would be gold.
Mark took a sip of coffee and closed his eyes a moment. It gave his face a relaxed expression, but the hint of tiredness was more pronounced. Ask him if he’s all right.
Of course he is. He’s a grown man.
And he held her fate in his hands. She had to be businesslike about this.
Mark opened his eyes again and took another sip of coffee. “Liquid gold,” he remarked. What? He doesn’t taste a difference from my mocha? My coffee has to be better than what Mrs. Barton is serving here.
She pulled back her shoulders to shake the disappointment sneaking through her. You’re not in any way special. Remember that.
Kids’ voices rang out at the door, and she turned away from Mark as several kids ran into the room and came for her, asking whether they could get started right away. A bigger boy pushed a smaller one who wanted to look at the wood, and the boy fell to the floor and burst out crying.
Mark put his coffee cup down. “Hey, little fellow.” He picked him up and put him back on his feet. The little boy stopped crying mid-sob and stared at Mark through wet eyelashes.
Cleo’s jaw dropped. His hands-on approach was the last thing she had expected.
“Let’s find a perfect piece of wood for you, huh?” Mark winked at the kid.
“Two,” Cleo said.
“Sorry?” Mark looked up at her.
She shrugged. “You need two for bookends. They only come in pairs, you know.”
His blue eyes darkened a fraction. “Really?”
Was it that hot in the room, or was it her imagination? She fussed with a bracelet while Mark leaned over the boy and helped him select the perfect pieces of wood from the pile. The bigger boy who had shoved him kept his distance now, even looking a bit envious.
What is he doing here? It can’t be bad news. He simply started to help her with the crafting workshop and…looked like a part of it. A relaxed, comfortable, perfectly in place part. In his tailor-made suit!
Is he going to help out? The whole night?
A whole night near Mark Stephens…
Yep, it’s way too warm in this room.
…
“Hold it straight.” Mark caught the tension in his own voice as he watched the tween boy struggle to get the coping saw through the piece of wood. Those pesky things always got stuck and broke if you tore at them too hard. “That’s right. Nice and easy. No tugging.”
“I can’t do it.” The boy puffed up his cheeks. He threw a glance at a table with younger kids where an adult volunteer was cutting the shapes for them. “I was born clumsy, my dad always says.”
“It isn’t you. It’s the saw that needs a bit of attention.” And you need a bit of confidence. “Hold it straight. That’s right. Now move it slowly.” When he had first used a coping saw, he’d boiled with frustration when the stupid blade had gotten stuck in the wood or broke with a vicious little twing. Building model airplanes had been more of his thing, but he did remember how to do this, and he was determined to help the kids make the most of their night. There had to be about thirty, both boys and girls—aged between six and twelve—buzzing about the tables, bickering among each other, but then lending a hand. The way kids did.
“That’s it,” he told the boy, who was suddenly sawing a few inches without getting stuck. “Now keep at it. Not too fast. Slow and steady.”
Looking up, he scanned for Cleo. She stood a few feet away, keeping an eye on kids who had already cut their bookends and were painting them. She wore a dress tonight—midnight blue with little silver twinkles, as if she were a winter sky. She moved around the room like a ray, lighting up the kids’ faces as soon as she leaned in to offer a quick tip. Her hands seemed able to restore any small disaster, and her smile was even wider than the kid’s when it worked out.
She glanced up, and their eyes met. His breath caught. He wanted to go over and talk to her, say something about the night, whatever, just to be closer to her. Had she done things like this before? How had she become so good with kids? Had it been her dream to work with them or have a bookshop? He wanted to know so much more. But he was here for work, not to strike up a friendship.
“There.” The boy had finished and smiled up at him. “Done.”
“Great. You did it! Now use the sandpaper to smooth the edges and you can start decorating.”
“Mark!” A little girl came running for him and showed him her bookend. He had helped her paint it a vibrant pink, the smudges were left on his hands, and now she had put stickers on it: tiny flowers and hearts
and birds. The paint was only half dry, and one of the birds shifted, like it was flying across her bookend.
She held it out to him so he could see better. Step back.
Too late. The bookend made contact with his pants, and when she pulled back, a pink print appeared on the fabric. The girl looked at it and whispered, “Oops.” Her shoulders sagged, and she didn’t dare look up at him.
“That’s okay,” he rushed to say. “These are old clothes.” It did hurt a bit to call the pants belonging to a five-hundred-dollar suit old clothes, but hey, as long as she didn’t burst out crying…
She perked up and smiled again. “These are my old clothes, too. Look, I put the bird here.”
He squatted to study it up close. “It’s great. Are you going to keep it yourself? Put it in your room?” Maybe buy a book or two at Rook to put between your bookends? Cleo has to make some sales off tonight.
“No, it’s for Gran. She has a lot of books.” She leaned on his knee with her free hand, and when she pulled away, there were little pink fingerprints. He rose to his feet as she ran away to show her bookend to others. With his thumb he gingerly rubbed at the fingerprints, hoping he could scrape off the still wet paint, but that only seemed to make it worse.
“Sorry about that.” Cleo stood by his side and eyed him worriedly. She tilted her head a bit, and a lock of hair that had come loose dangled against her cheek. “I don’t remember the old household trick for getting wet paint off cloth.”
I don’t remember anything when you look at me like we’re the only people in this room. He cleared his throat. “No problem. I should really have worn old clothes. I mean, who goes to a crafting event with paint and stuff in a good suit, huh?”
“I bet you didn’t bring any old clothes.” Cleo leaned back on her heels, her eyes sparkling with a challenge. “Or even own any?”
“The first guess may be true, but the second betrays a gross misunderstanding of who I am.” With aplomb, Mark showed her his paint-stained hands. “These hands can make anything you want.”
